In rural Alaska, all the birth defects due to my LSD sales will likely go unnoticed.
Top of the morning gents,
I was chatting with Sara a few months ago and I asked her if she was in touch with her friends from Kotzebue. She said she wasn't. I asked why and she said it had gotten stupid because her friends believed that I "beat up all their parents." Well shit, how do I respond to that? I may be responsible for some shit, but I don't recall pounding on THAT many ice-midgets. You guys bear far more responsibility for bringing arrestees to the jail already tuned-up and pissed off looking to fight. My duties were merely pulling fighting, kicking and spitting new inmates out of the patrol car and dragging them into the jail for processing. Sara's claim that I beat up her classmates' parents is unjust, exaggerated and unfounded. I never layed a hand on any natives. Guns and drugs neither.
I can see you coppers getting red in the face, looking around to see if others are looking over yer shoulders, waiting for my sorry ass explanations.
Reviewing my actions over the last 4 decades in Alaska, I can publicly explain the details of 3 major crimes that I can be attributable to. And as you can guess, they're related to my retarded business models and dumber ventures you're already aware of. Hell, my activities are public record in my testimony during grand jury proceedings, in both rural Alaska and dumb-ass inbred hillbilly white trash big city Alaska, like Mat-Su and Fairbanks. Regions better known as the Valley of Trash and Shitbanks.
I'll start by explaining what crimes I'm personally responsible for, and the immense heartbreak rained down upon numerous villages across rural monkey Alaska. It's serious comedy when my grief thunders down upon smaller, darker and ignorant races that we sleep with daily. Since the parties involved are either dead or retarded, I can speak freely, without fear of retribution.
Working with you guys, we've pulled apart a million fucking domestic fist-fights, seized thousands of bottles and bags of weed, and sent whole armies of stupid defendants to Anvil Mountain and beyond. Most of the personnel I processed were pretty good dudes, well mannered and all around fairly decent folks that knew full well they'd fucked up and were only gonna do short stretches in jail. Very few headed off for more than weeks or months in the clink. The only long-haul inmates were in for homicides and sexual assaults, and those we can count with our fingers. Okay, add your toes. And dicks. That way we can count up to 21. We're not retarded, we're from Alaska.
Now, let's reverse this examination and scrutinize the behavior of some of the cops we've worked with and in comparison look at the stupid shit I pulled. In uniform, I doubt I violated very many regulations detailed in the Jail Officers' Training Manual I had to read and test on way back in the 80's. I made gourmet coffee for the cops, handed out cigars and cigarettes, and a shitload of opiate laced 222 Tylenol and aspirins. I also doubt I violated many of the VPSO regulations I was instructed and lectured by troopers statewide, including Godfrey. He started his career as a VPSO and VPO ascending all the way to the CEO of all of Alaska's cops. His murder by a jilted young busty smoking-hot mistress was a startling end to his reign as Commissioner. And his marriage. His gorgeous curvy tasty pussy and secret poon-snatch put Godfrey's own 44 mag to her head and blasted juice across the home, after leaving Godfrey's fat old wife shot to shit, gimp-chair bound and crippled all to hell.
I can't out-do that. My crimes are merely of substance and kinetic energy, meaning drug abuse and firearms. I bought and sold a shit-load of guns from all over Alaska, sanded and varnished, cleaned and oiled them and merely pocketed a few 20's above my costs. The hunnert guns Pim mailed me from Seattle were bought on the open hot-gun market and unloaded way up North. Pim was known to make offers on, and purchase lots of guns used in violent crimes, stolen guns and guns destined to visit the bottom of Puget Sound or melted with auto carcasses at Seattle Steel Mills. Usually after someone was blown apart, disputes were settled, and bad debts cleared. Those guns he mailed to me I only sold to the gooks and out of town dopes.
As far as substance abuse, I never sold cocaine in Alaska, nor weed, those I consumed myself. I did trade and barter a shit-load of liquor, but only back and forth amongst a tight group of alcoholics and felons. Some cops too. I did import thousands of doses of LSD, sold some, but most of the shit was sold through Harley Bronson, a homeless kid I adopted way back in Chief Don Beuler's patrol sector: Mountlake Terrace, Washington. As long as I shipped an unlimited cargo of acid, Harley could sell the shit outa that product and bring back cubic dollars I paid utilities with or brought to Win Scott at AC Hardware. I'd run up 4 figure charge accounts, then when a windfall of dollars filled my drawer, I'd change everything into AK dimes ($100 dollar bills) at NBA, walk down to Win's and settle up. Some days, this money ended up at Alaska Airlines, KEA and OTZ too. If I owed anybody for helping me drive nails, haul construction materials or lay roofing, I usually handed them acid instead of cash. Everybody be happy, happy, happy.
A few weeks ago, me and bun flew up to ANMC so we can see how healthy "the ancient one" is. The doctors did the endoscopy, which is the camera looking down the throat and into the esophagus and top of the stomach. This scoping is to detect ulcers and esophageal erosion as a result of heartburn. Yup, you niggers figured it out, being married to me is financially rewarding, yet really stressful fer fucking native women.
As posted before, I wrote the book on the care and feeding of elderly native women. I'm a ball-buster when it comes to arriving for dental appointments and losing the goddamned cigarettes. My worst offense to the world of the indigenous is that I'm a real fucking asshole about laundry, dish washing and vacuum cleaning my fucking black man's igloo, also known in Barrow as Karl's Nigloo. If my pretty wife does all the cooking, I'll do all the cleaning. If the chores were reversed, we'd be eating shit and living in a stink native house. Smell me?
I'm also a real fucking jerk about haircuts. I also insist on losing the hair coloring products and perms. The proverb that applies to dippy cross-eyed native women with silly retarded backwards hairstyles is "I've got products in my hair and cysts on my uterus." Bun dumped the retarded Eskimo cultural vanity of wearing black hair and thinking we don't suspect Inuit elders of farting dust and losing their teeth laughing at her stupid husband. A really stupid husband that lives by really stupid rules such as no gambling. Rippies and Bingo are strictly for blacks and hillbillies, cigarettes are only for short darkie Nigarettes, and most native women I'll only rent, very few I'll ever own.
I'm such a naive peckerwood. I worked my dick off cutting down hangers, carrying gun-eaters and mopping native puke in the jails all over Alaska. I then took my paychecks, booze and drug proceeds and spent it all on Sara's orthodontia, cosmetic oral surgeries and air fare to and from Seattle. I also spent my meager pay on a butt-load of collectible rifles and pistols for my dad's gun locker. My dad didn't want any cash-money for Sara's room and board, he was intrigued with the guns I bought and sold. The legal and clean guns, of course. So I sent him fucking dozens.
It started with a chrome 44 mag that Garoutte put a scope on, a bunch of Glocks, a brand new Ruger 270 rifle I bought off Officer Mack, an M-16 A-2 from Joe, a 338 win mag too, plus untold pistols and pert near an armory I selected from 30+ years of looting. I can't remember all the guns my dad horded. I was chatting with the Chief a few months ago and told him that my dad had passed away a few years after my mom. The boss asked what was gonna happen to all the dozens of guns I sent my dad, and I was flummoxed.
My dad didn't hire a lawyer to write, witness, file and record a will at the local courthouse, so everything he ever accumulated from both sets of grandparents went into probate. Meaning he was intestate and an executor would follow the orders from a judge as to disposal of this humongous estate and pay the 7 heirs. Meaning, me and my sibs. I could only guess at the values of all this Seattle real estate. Decades ago, I helped my dad repair a butt-load of rental and live-in houses and landscaped some wooded properties, including suspect ashes buried under the outhouse. I also rebuilt a cabin on a beachfront property near David Craig's place on Hood Canal, up the road from Shelton. To cool down a hyper-inflationary real estate market, the FED has raised interest rates numerous times, showing 15-year mortgages more than doubling from 2% to 5.5%. As of 2020, the values are astronomical and it seems my dad had perfect market timing, even in death.
Fuck dudes, adding grandparent pass-through inheritances and my grups junk pile we're talking serious laundered slave money from the Confederate States and human traffic dollars and laudanum bucks to Alaska. Shit niggers, child rape in 907 brothels, heroin hauling and shipping Cooley gooks paid a pretty penny. I've already received a check from my grandpa's savings divided by us 7 surviving siblings. Last week I got another from initial off-loading of junk and properties (including a shit-load of guns), with 3 more pieces of real estate to sell. I'm gonna miss all those dozens of guns, but fuck, at least I no longer have to travel to Seattle, ship them all up to Alaska, and sell them. Looking back at my parents and grandparents estates, all I can say is, crime pays.
A funny flash-back down moron memory lane occurred when I was up at ANMC for bun's heartburn and ulcer scoping, I ran into Roberta Brower. You remember, Danny Burnor's girlfriend way back in the day. Roberta travels from the lower 48 for all of her medical malarkey because outside of Alaska there's scant free services offered to natives. Another local gal, Margie Euben, also travels from Arizona up to Funny River Road (just outside of Soldotna) for all of her periodic tune-ups and medicine refill updates at the Denaina Vagina in Kenai. Needless to say, any girls I refer to, know and remember are way past menopause, so don't get all hot and bothered with notions and fantasies of hot sex and natural lubrication. I'm old as shit, so are the women you'll come across in these stupid diatribes.
As us squaw boys know, natives can't go too far without rebounding back up north. Sara told me that she went to a native reservation clinic in Texas and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Alaska Natives find out real fucking quick, ANMC totally rocks, and as much as folks bitch, outside reservation clinical care totally sucks stinky blistered red dicks. I know, that's gross.
During my wait in the reception area while bun was receiving treatment, Roberta asked me if I knew that Randy Kem had died. I had to scrape crust, scabs and drain slag just to fetch memories from so far back. I asked her if that was the same Randy Kem that Harley sold a bunch of acid to at David Burnor's place. She said that's the one. Harley was my lead salesman in a silly smuggling scheme that your author on drugs devised.
I never had any backfires with my gun sales. Nobody was murdered with the firearms I sold in Barrow and Kotzebue. My work with statewide narcs went according to script and my work at KPD or the VPSO program didn't result in any wrongful deaths. Shit, not even a righteous death occurred on my shifts. But the precipitate mortality and echoes of death only happened when I flooded village micro-markets with LSD.
I used to stuff numerous doggy pillows in dog kennels with sheets of LSD and fly dogs from Seattle to Kotzebue. I also had my buddies disassemble CD packaging and insert a few sheets of acid under each label, then simply mail them to me. I'm not much into screaming colors and hallucinating like hippies in the 60's, but a lot of Kotzebue folks sure the fuck were. Despite long-term and genetic health warning labels on my acid, out here in rural Alaska, the birth defects would likely go unnoticed. I sold more LSD than booze or guns, and funneled the dineros into Sara's dental and travel expenses and my carpentry projects (houses 676, 711, 369) you dildos always saw me working on.
I snagged an envelope of acid soaked blotter paper, met Harley at the Burnor's and passed him a decent stash to sell. For some reason Randy Kem was there, real drunk and wanted to fight me. I just sat down at my place at the table, smoked some bowls and downed some glasses of 151. I ignored fuck-head Kem and let Harley sell him a string of 10 hits for an unknown roll of bills. That fucker stuffed them all in his mouth and chewed the whole strip of 10 hits of acid, grabbed David Melton's glass of flammable drinky-poo and chugged everything down. Wow. Our irritant that never became a pearl, Randy Kem, bragged that he dosed better LSD a million fucking times back home. Sure. I continued smoking pine bud, drinking 51 solvent and watched dipshit Kem bother everybody with his drunken rants of badness and stupidity.
He went from a sloppy drunk to a sober person in about a half hour. He then became real quiet, watched everybody with eyes so dilated that all the color of his eyes was eclipsed black, acting nervous, worried and apprehensive. I almost felt sorry for the fucker, so I offered him a bong rip or a drink , but he declined. Poor chump was terrified and seriously tripping balls.
Randy Kem got a spook in him and decided he was gonna book, so he grabbed his hat, gloves and jacket and left. Shortly afterwards me and Sara, Dopey and Harley dragged our lips home to house 676 on Caribou Street. I was so smoked and Bacardi soaked, I didn't feel the frost on my face, but Dopey the doberman pulled me home with his leash, Sara and Harley in tow.
I awoke at around 3am with the phone ringing. David Burnor was drunk yelling at me that Randy Kem was running up and down the runway, super high and butt-ass naked, at -30 below. According to Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell, a Mark Air jet had to abort its landing and circle around until someone grabbed the naked chubby white guy that was doing wind sprints in the flight path of a loaded Herc. Airport personnel, troopers and FAA dicks grabbed this lunatic on acid, Randy Kem, put him in a real pretty asylum outfit and sent him to Charter North for a visit with Len Anderson. Len was enjoying a spin-dry cycle and sobering up, once and for all. I'm sure he enjoyed Randy Kem as a cell mate and his angry rants during Group. That'd drive me to drink.
Hearing that he recently died made me grin shitty and chuckle to myself.
I've got another tale of too much acid unleashed on a community of shrunken brown brains soaked in liquor. A few months after Randy Kem did his naked fat-boy dance and marathon run up and down the runway, I got another wake-up call from Higbitch (Brian Higman), drunk as shit, telling me that 3 dudes were run over on 3rd avenue, in front of the 41 unit.
I was slow on the uptake because Higman sounded so weird and I couldn't understand what he was whispering and griping about, until he finished a completely drunk and trippy sentence and told me that after his rendezvous with a cute out-of-town chick, she ran over some village chimps on the road. The hot little unit Brian was screwing was Shannon Pavel: major cutie, serious fine ass, C-cup, narrow waist and round fanny that explodes all the way across the room. Bam!
Shannon Pavel flew in from Bethel and was partying with Brian, eating MY dangerously strong LSD and drinking MY fucking Everclear liquor. They were both really fucking high, snacking and sharing each others glowing sex organs. A matching pair: a sex pistol and penis holster that absorbed way too much LSD that I'd dropped off at Higman's house just days before. Shannon was out on a lark and looking to party while her National Guard husband was out training on dummy patrol. Higman's place (321) was the go-to destination to visit, buy a jug and get super high and maybe grab some quick wood. I think you guys are now drawing a conclusion to this evening's drinking and partying activities.
Higman and Shannon Pavel were drinking and tripping on Everclear and LSD, and likely sucking face, ass, groinulars, marathon fucking and passing out. Until they were awoken by hair-lip Daryl Sours (girl-girl's stupid brother) pounding on the front door. Shannon wiped her glow-in-the-dark pussy on Higman's pillow, got dressed, grabbed a bottle of Everclear from Brian, flashed him a fatal smile and headed back home with Daryl Sours pissed off at waiting for hours for the bottle he sent money out for. He'd grown weary of huffing Pam and WD-40 and was forced to hike all over town in the cold to find his bottle, or his money.
Brian was stocked up because he had a stash of acid and snagged a half-case, 6 bottles of 190 proof jet fuel I owed him for a pile of back bills and shit. In Alaska, drugs are worth more than money. After Higman and Shannon Pavel downed too much Everclear paint thinner and LSD, they jumped each other's bones. Brian sacked more bush than any twerp in all of rural Alaska, seen more ass than any toilet seat and sucked more discharge out of a pussy than a lesbian gynecologist or dyke bitch undertaker. I used to insult him by saying that the most disgusting thing you'll ever smell on a naked native woman's body, is an Irish man. And Brian was always gittin' some. That is, until tard-lip Daryl Sours came pounding on the door, coughing and wheezing aerosol fumes. He was scouting for Shannon and located her truck in front of Higbitch's.
Here's where the story gets horrible. Shannon Pavel and Daryl Sours booked from Higman's, down 3rd avenue and in the middle of an Everclear and LSD head-rush, seizure and post-orgasm shiver, Shannon ran over Tykee Lloyd Hall and 2 out of town native men from upriver. The two brothers were from Ambler, Kobuk or Shungnak and I think their last names were Sun. Distant relations to KOTZ 720 am broadcaster, Suzie Sun.
Mrs. Pavel was in the similar shape and sobriety as Randy Kem: drunk as shit, seeing colors and tripping like a motherfucker. She killed the two Sun brothers with her truck, leaving their boots on the road and bouncing Tykee Lloyd Hall across the ice like a fucking hockey puck at light speed. Shannon and Daryl Sours ditched the truck and ran up to her apartment upstairs at the 41 leaving the 2 busted bodies in the roadside to freeze solid and Tykee in a heap against the fence. Fuck them dead niggers, we gotta crack this bottle and drink bitch.
The rest is criminal case history, prosecution and conviction. Shannon Pavel was deep-sixed for quite a stretch for driving while intoxicated, vehicular homicide and I believe Higbitch was the last fuck and suck she got before her jail sentence. I chided Brian that she was also convicted of driving a white dude under the influence of LSD. And breathing Everclear flames, thus explaining Higman's roached pubes, skid marks and fang lesions. You can imagine the details to that action. Two can chew.
A few months later, I got another package of CD's loaded with sheets of LSD, so I popped over to house 711 and paid a visit to Harley. I owed him a pile of money and he preferred dangerous mind altering chemicals over cash. My kind of guy. Me and Harley were doing an interior restoration on Chester and Ida Ballot's house, including a plumbing upgrade. We stuffed insulation in the attic and floors, all the empty walls, textured and painted, then layed out a giant piece of miss-cut carpet from Win at AC Hardware that fit the living area perfectly.
Harley was now the owner of a bunch of acid and asked if he could have a party at our work site inside house 711. I was apprehensive, because he and Dennis Tucker were caught trying to steal stove oil from the courthouse. Harley and Dennis were arrested at gunpoint and almost got killed by our more professional cops at KPD. Shoot first, ditch niggers later. Got dump?
I didn't have any liquor to give him, but with a shit load of LSD on hand I was pretty sure he'd find a way to make mischief. My only advice is next time he's in trouble, I recommended the cops simply dump bullets in both him and that stupid pit bull Dino. Then me and bun will strip him naked and arrange the dead bodies to look as if Harley was having Cecil Hawley anal sex with his own dog. Once frozen solid, I'd load him on a freight sled and erect a statue in front of the courthouse commemorating canine bestiality anal porn so popular amongst Eskimos of the NANA Region. I told him that's where Dolly Hawley came from, and Harley believed me.
Harley Bronson is a disaster and party all in one pile of bad luck. He rallied his dudes and started selling acid to everybody. Francine Harris, May Marlene Thomas, Gloira Ramoth, that weird little puke Lowell Ward, Willie Hailstone, Robert Evak, Shane Keller the nigger that boned Blanchard's wife in dispatch, White Mike Baker and his retarded girlfriend Starbuck, Terry McCall and some darkie ho that preferred tiny cookoos, and bunch of herpie chicks all chewed dangerously strong bitter chemical acid paper and when Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell got off work, they layed out serious dollars also ate a bunch of acid. Acid they all assumed incorrectly, was weak. Now add a pregnant girl. Yup, real dumb. Native babies are such buzz-kills.
Travel back in time and remember the faces of this crew of turd squeezers. Now add way too much LSD and green bud. To complete this episode of mass mental retardation, ya gotta get some liquor. So Chip and Scott thought up a real genius idea: let's run down to Mark Air and steal cases of other people's booze orders.
So that's what they did. Harley kept selling acid on a wholesale level, everybody super high, smoking weed and drinking stolen cases of liquor with a bottle in each hand. The party grew exponentially as Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell flew up and down 3rd avenue between house 711 and the airport with numerous loads of liquor. The bragging rights go to Scott for setting land speed records of over 100mph up and down main drags, side roads and of course, Front street.
Since Jaynor Clark was stuck at home, breast feeding her dog lot and not invited to the party, all the girls took turns riding on the back of the snow machine on each of Scott and Chip's speed runs down to Mark Air for evermore liquor.
Unbeknownst to all these chuckle-head motherfuckers is that when yer screaming high on LSD, liquor has zero effect on you. At least that's the feeling, but yer children will surely display evidence in their DNA damaged, mongoloid crossed-eyes, cleft palate and giant monster skulls. Examine the list of party-goers and then look at their children. The handicapped mutts outlived the cute dead ones.
History will never know how many trips Chip and Scott took down to their workplace to steal booze, but Harley said it was more than 8 cases of hard liquor and dozens of cases of beer. That's 96 bottles of hard liquor, on top of the green bud and acid. Accounting for some liquor barfed in the snow out back, bad shit happens when ye party on the rez. Scared now aren't ye?
On a trip down to the airport, May Marlene Thomas wanted to ride along with Scott to fetch booze. Of course you all know this was their last trip. Scott was WAY fuckered up, yet likely felt in control of his snow machine. On their return trip back up front street, they were flying at warp speed, missed the turn at Lillian Lewis-Coppock's cabin, got crossed up and slammed into Leroy Wilson's front porch.
Scott bailed seconds before impact, but May Marlene was inserted into plywood and lumber as the engine in front her red-lined wide open. While head-rushing on LSD, weed and hard liquor, both her and her baby were disintegrated leaving red bits of litter all over the frozen street. We all know what it feels like to be way up inside a pussy super drunk. Hell, even super high on acid. I wonder what that baby felt like: liquored up and soaked in LSD, tripping balls, stuck way up inside a pussy, then blasted out like an explosive anal Semtex wet fart. Hmmm trippy. We all been there.
Harley told me that after everyone fled, terrified and scary high, he ran away from the scene of the crime and arrived on my front door at house 676 and told me the whole story. I relayed the tale to KPD detailing all the culprits and the mission to kype a fuck-load of booze repeatedly from Mark Air. I also made subtle mention that lots of LSD was consumed but omitted my culpability. Eventually, James Elam fessed up to the massive shortage of booze in the hangar and Bish terminated Chip and Scott on the spot.
Scott did a long stretch in jail for killing May Marlene Thomas and her baby, Chip never worked again in Kotzebue and due to my LSD, eliminated any chance of healthy babies from his stinky deformed seed goop.
Harley can be found frozen naked in front of the courthouse, with his dead pit bull Dino fanged and snarling, yet solid frosty and ass gaped wide open with a skinny kid's icicle erection, balls deep, way up this stupid dog's ass. Ice sculpture, by Hawley of Kivilina.
Since all of my coworkers at the police department are either retired or dead, I think I might move back to Kotzebue again. Maybe renovate some houses, sell needful things, like guns and shit. Maybe import a few thousand hits of LSD too. You know, for personal consumption.
We'll keep this a secret, just between us. Nobody will ever find out.
Karl.
I was chatting with Sara a few months ago and I asked her if she was in touch with her friends from Kotzebue. She said she wasn't. I asked why and she said it had gotten stupid because her friends believed that I "beat up all their parents." Well shit, how do I respond to that? I may be responsible for some shit, but I don't recall pounding on THAT many ice-midgets. You guys bear far more responsibility for bringing arrestees to the jail already tuned-up and pissed off looking to fight. My duties were merely pulling fighting, kicking and spitting new inmates out of the patrol car and dragging them into the jail for processing. Sara's claim that I beat up her classmates' parents is unjust, exaggerated and unfounded. I never layed a hand on any natives. Guns and drugs neither.
I can see you coppers getting red in the face, looking around to see if others are looking over yer shoulders, waiting for my sorry ass explanations.
Reviewing my actions over the last 4 decades in Alaska, I can publicly explain the details of 3 major crimes that I can be attributable to. And as you can guess, they're related to my retarded business models and dumber ventures you're already aware of. Hell, my activities are public record in my testimony during grand jury proceedings, in both rural Alaska and dumb-ass inbred hillbilly white trash big city Alaska, like Mat-Su and Fairbanks. Regions better known as the Valley of Trash and Shitbanks.
I'll start by explaining what crimes I'm personally responsible for, and the immense heartbreak rained down upon numerous villages across rural monkey Alaska. It's serious comedy when my grief thunders down upon smaller, darker and ignorant races that we sleep with daily. Since the parties involved are either dead or retarded, I can speak freely, without fear of retribution.
Working with you guys, we've pulled apart a million fucking domestic fist-fights, seized thousands of bottles and bags of weed, and sent whole armies of stupid defendants to Anvil Mountain and beyond. Most of the personnel I processed were pretty good dudes, well mannered and all around fairly decent folks that knew full well they'd fucked up and were only gonna do short stretches in jail. Very few headed off for more than weeks or months in the clink. The only long-haul inmates were in for homicides and sexual assaults, and those we can count with our fingers. Okay, add your toes. And dicks. That way we can count up to 21. We're not retarded, we're from Alaska.
Now, let's reverse this examination and scrutinize the behavior of some of the cops we've worked with and in comparison look at the stupid shit I pulled. In uniform, I doubt I violated very many regulations detailed in the Jail Officers' Training Manual I had to read and test on way back in the 80's. I made gourmet coffee for the cops, handed out cigars and cigarettes, and a shitload of opiate laced 222 Tylenol and aspirins. I also doubt I violated many of the VPSO regulations I was instructed and lectured by troopers statewide, including Godfrey. He started his career as a VPSO and VPO ascending all the way to the CEO of all of Alaska's cops. His murder by a jilted young busty smoking-hot mistress was a startling end to his reign as Commissioner. And his marriage. His gorgeous curvy tasty pussy and secret poon-snatch put Godfrey's own 44 mag to her head and blasted juice across the home, after leaving Godfrey's fat old wife shot to shit, gimp-chair bound and crippled all to hell.
I can't out-do that. My crimes are merely of substance and kinetic energy, meaning drug abuse and firearms. I bought and sold a shit-load of guns from all over Alaska, sanded and varnished, cleaned and oiled them and merely pocketed a few 20's above my costs. The hunnert guns Pim mailed me from Seattle were bought on the open hot-gun market and unloaded way up North. Pim was known to make offers on, and purchase lots of guns used in violent crimes, stolen guns and guns destined to visit the bottom of Puget Sound or melted with auto carcasses at Seattle Steel Mills. Usually after someone was blown apart, disputes were settled, and bad debts cleared. Those guns he mailed to me I only sold to the gooks and out of town dopes.
As far as substance abuse, I never sold cocaine in Alaska, nor weed, those I consumed myself. I did trade and barter a shit-load of liquor, but only back and forth amongst a tight group of alcoholics and felons. Some cops too. I did import thousands of doses of LSD, sold some, but most of the shit was sold through Harley Bronson, a homeless kid I adopted way back in Chief Don Beuler's patrol sector: Mountlake Terrace, Washington. As long as I shipped an unlimited cargo of acid, Harley could sell the shit outa that product and bring back cubic dollars I paid utilities with or brought to Win Scott at AC Hardware. I'd run up 4 figure charge accounts, then when a windfall of dollars filled my drawer, I'd change everything into AK dimes ($100 dollar bills) at NBA, walk down to Win's and settle up. Some days, this money ended up at Alaska Airlines, KEA and OTZ too. If I owed anybody for helping me drive nails, haul construction materials or lay roofing, I usually handed them acid instead of cash. Everybody be happy, happy, happy.
A few weeks ago, me and bun flew up to ANMC so we can see how healthy "the ancient one" is. The doctors did the endoscopy, which is the camera looking down the throat and into the esophagus and top of the stomach. This scoping is to detect ulcers and esophageal erosion as a result of heartburn. Yup, you niggers figured it out, being married to me is financially rewarding, yet really stressful fer fucking native women.
As posted before, I wrote the book on the care and feeding of elderly native women. I'm a ball-buster when it comes to arriving for dental appointments and losing the goddamned cigarettes. My worst offense to the world of the indigenous is that I'm a real fucking asshole about laundry, dish washing and vacuum cleaning my fucking black man's igloo, also known in Barrow as Karl's Nigloo. If my pretty wife does all the cooking, I'll do all the cleaning. If the chores were reversed, we'd be eating shit and living in a stink native house. Smell me?
I'm also a real fucking jerk about haircuts. I also insist on losing the hair coloring products and perms. The proverb that applies to dippy cross-eyed native women with silly retarded backwards hairstyles is "I've got products in my hair and cysts on my uterus." Bun dumped the retarded Eskimo cultural vanity of wearing black hair and thinking we don't suspect Inuit elders of farting dust and losing their teeth laughing at her stupid husband. A really stupid husband that lives by really stupid rules such as no gambling. Rippies and Bingo are strictly for blacks and hillbillies, cigarettes are only for short darkie Nigarettes, and most native women I'll only rent, very few I'll ever own.
I'm such a naive peckerwood. I worked my dick off cutting down hangers, carrying gun-eaters and mopping native puke in the jails all over Alaska. I then took my paychecks, booze and drug proceeds and spent it all on Sara's orthodontia, cosmetic oral surgeries and air fare to and from Seattle. I also spent my meager pay on a butt-load of collectible rifles and pistols for my dad's gun locker. My dad didn't want any cash-money for Sara's room and board, he was intrigued with the guns I bought and sold. The legal and clean guns, of course. So I sent him fucking dozens.
It started with a chrome 44 mag that Garoutte put a scope on, a bunch of Glocks, a brand new Ruger 270 rifle I bought off Officer Mack, an M-16 A-2 from Joe, a 338 win mag too, plus untold pistols and pert near an armory I selected from 30+ years of looting. I can't remember all the guns my dad horded. I was chatting with the Chief a few months ago and told him that my dad had passed away a few years after my mom. The boss asked what was gonna happen to all the dozens of guns I sent my dad, and I was flummoxed.
My dad didn't hire a lawyer to write, witness, file and record a will at the local courthouse, so everything he ever accumulated from both sets of grandparents went into probate. Meaning he was intestate and an executor would follow the orders from a judge as to disposal of this humongous estate and pay the 7 heirs. Meaning, me and my sibs. I could only guess at the values of all this Seattle real estate. Decades ago, I helped my dad repair a butt-load of rental and live-in houses and landscaped some wooded properties, including suspect ashes buried under the outhouse. I also rebuilt a cabin on a beachfront property near David Craig's place on Hood Canal, up the road from Shelton. To cool down a hyper-inflationary real estate market, the FED has raised interest rates numerous times, showing 15-year mortgages more than doubling from 2% to 5.5%. As of 2020, the values are astronomical and it seems my dad had perfect market timing, even in death.
Fuck dudes, adding grandparent pass-through inheritances and my grups junk pile we're talking serious laundered slave money from the Confederate States and human traffic dollars and laudanum bucks to Alaska. Shit niggers, child rape in 907 brothels, heroin hauling and shipping Cooley gooks paid a pretty penny. I've already received a check from my grandpa's savings divided by us 7 surviving siblings. Last week I got another from initial off-loading of junk and properties (including a shit-load of guns), with 3 more pieces of real estate to sell. I'm gonna miss all those dozens of guns, but fuck, at least I no longer have to travel to Seattle, ship them all up to Alaska, and sell them. Looking back at my parents and grandparents estates, all I can say is, crime pays.
A funny flash-back down moron memory lane occurred when I was up at ANMC for bun's heartburn and ulcer scoping, I ran into Roberta Brower. You remember, Danny Burnor's girlfriend way back in the day. Roberta travels from the lower 48 for all of her medical malarkey because outside of Alaska there's scant free services offered to natives. Another local gal, Margie Euben, also travels from Arizona up to Funny River Road (just outside of Soldotna) for all of her periodic tune-ups and medicine refill updates at the Denaina Vagina in Kenai. Needless to say, any girls I refer to, know and remember are way past menopause, so don't get all hot and bothered with notions and fantasies of hot sex and natural lubrication. I'm old as shit, so are the women you'll come across in these stupid diatribes.
As us squaw boys know, natives can't go too far without rebounding back up north. Sara told me that she went to a native reservation clinic in Texas and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Alaska Natives find out real fucking quick, ANMC totally rocks, and as much as folks bitch, outside reservation clinical care totally sucks stinky blistered red dicks. I know, that's gross.
During my wait in the reception area while bun was receiving treatment, Roberta asked me if I knew that Randy Kem had died. I had to scrape crust, scabs and drain slag just to fetch memories from so far back. I asked her if that was the same Randy Kem that Harley sold a bunch of acid to at David Burnor's place. She said that's the one. Harley was my lead salesman in a silly smuggling scheme that your author on drugs devised.
I never had any backfires with my gun sales. Nobody was murdered with the firearms I sold in Barrow and Kotzebue. My work with statewide narcs went according to script and my work at KPD or the VPSO program didn't result in any wrongful deaths. Shit, not even a righteous death occurred on my shifts. But the precipitate mortality and echoes of death only happened when I flooded village micro-markets with LSD.
I used to stuff numerous doggy pillows in dog kennels with sheets of LSD and fly dogs from Seattle to Kotzebue. I also had my buddies disassemble CD packaging and insert a few sheets of acid under each label, then simply mail them to me. I'm not much into screaming colors and hallucinating like hippies in the 60's, but a lot of Kotzebue folks sure the fuck were. Despite long-term and genetic health warning labels on my acid, out here in rural Alaska, the birth defects would likely go unnoticed. I sold more LSD than booze or guns, and funneled the dineros into Sara's dental and travel expenses and my carpentry projects (houses 676, 711, 369) you dildos always saw me working on.
I snagged an envelope of acid soaked blotter paper, met Harley at the Burnor's and passed him a decent stash to sell. For some reason Randy Kem was there, real drunk and wanted to fight me. I just sat down at my place at the table, smoked some bowls and downed some glasses of 151. I ignored fuck-head Kem and let Harley sell him a string of 10 hits for an unknown roll of bills. That fucker stuffed them all in his mouth and chewed the whole strip of 10 hits of acid, grabbed David Melton's glass of flammable drinky-poo and chugged everything down. Wow. Our irritant that never became a pearl, Randy Kem, bragged that he dosed better LSD a million fucking times back home. Sure. I continued smoking pine bud, drinking 51 solvent and watched dipshit Kem bother everybody with his drunken rants of badness and stupidity.
He went from a sloppy drunk to a sober person in about a half hour. He then became real quiet, watched everybody with eyes so dilated that all the color of his eyes was eclipsed black, acting nervous, worried and apprehensive. I almost felt sorry for the fucker, so I offered him a bong rip or a drink , but he declined. Poor chump was terrified and seriously tripping balls.
Randy Kem got a spook in him and decided he was gonna book, so he grabbed his hat, gloves and jacket and left. Shortly afterwards me and Sara, Dopey and Harley dragged our lips home to house 676 on Caribou Street. I was so smoked and Bacardi soaked, I didn't feel the frost on my face, but Dopey the doberman pulled me home with his leash, Sara and Harley in tow.
I awoke at around 3am with the phone ringing. David Burnor was drunk yelling at me that Randy Kem was running up and down the runway, super high and butt-ass naked, at -30 below. According to Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell, a Mark Air jet had to abort its landing and circle around until someone grabbed the naked chubby white guy that was doing wind sprints in the flight path of a loaded Herc. Airport personnel, troopers and FAA dicks grabbed this lunatic on acid, Randy Kem, put him in a real pretty asylum outfit and sent him to Charter North for a visit with Len Anderson. Len was enjoying a spin-dry cycle and sobering up, once and for all. I'm sure he enjoyed Randy Kem as a cell mate and his angry rants during Group. That'd drive me to drink.
Hearing that he recently died made me grin shitty and chuckle to myself.
I've got another tale of too much acid unleashed on a community of shrunken brown brains soaked in liquor. A few months after Randy Kem did his naked fat-boy dance and marathon run up and down the runway, I got another wake-up call from Higbitch (Brian Higman), drunk as shit, telling me that 3 dudes were run over on 3rd avenue, in front of the 41 unit.
I was slow on the uptake because Higman sounded so weird and I couldn't understand what he was whispering and griping about, until he finished a completely drunk and trippy sentence and told me that after his rendezvous with a cute out-of-town chick, she ran over some village chimps on the road. The hot little unit Brian was screwing was Shannon Pavel: major cutie, serious fine ass, C-cup, narrow waist and round fanny that explodes all the way across the room. Bam!
Shannon Pavel flew in from Bethel and was partying with Brian, eating MY dangerously strong LSD and drinking MY fucking Everclear liquor. They were both really fucking high, snacking and sharing each others glowing sex organs. A matching pair: a sex pistol and penis holster that absorbed way too much LSD that I'd dropped off at Higman's house just days before. Shannon was out on a lark and looking to party while her National Guard husband was out training on dummy patrol. Higman's place (321) was the go-to destination to visit, buy a jug and get super high and maybe grab some quick wood. I think you guys are now drawing a conclusion to this evening's drinking and partying activities.
Higman and Shannon Pavel were drinking and tripping on Everclear and LSD, and likely sucking face, ass, groinulars, marathon fucking and passing out. Until they were awoken by hair-lip Daryl Sours (girl-girl's stupid brother) pounding on the front door. Shannon wiped her glow-in-the-dark pussy on Higman's pillow, got dressed, grabbed a bottle of Everclear from Brian, flashed him a fatal smile and headed back home with Daryl Sours pissed off at waiting for hours for the bottle he sent money out for. He'd grown weary of huffing Pam and WD-40 and was forced to hike all over town in the cold to find his bottle, or his money.
Brian was stocked up because he had a stash of acid and snagged a half-case, 6 bottles of 190 proof jet fuel I owed him for a pile of back bills and shit. In Alaska, drugs are worth more than money. After Higman and Shannon Pavel downed too much Everclear paint thinner and LSD, they jumped each other's bones. Brian sacked more bush than any twerp in all of rural Alaska, seen more ass than any toilet seat and sucked more discharge out of a pussy than a lesbian gynecologist or dyke bitch undertaker. I used to insult him by saying that the most disgusting thing you'll ever smell on a naked native woman's body, is an Irish man. And Brian was always gittin' some. That is, until tard-lip Daryl Sours came pounding on the door, coughing and wheezing aerosol fumes. He was scouting for Shannon and located her truck in front of Higbitch's.
Here's where the story gets horrible. Shannon Pavel and Daryl Sours booked from Higman's, down 3rd avenue and in the middle of an Everclear and LSD head-rush, seizure and post-orgasm shiver, Shannon ran over Tykee Lloyd Hall and 2 out of town native men from upriver. The two brothers were from Ambler, Kobuk or Shungnak and I think their last names were Sun. Distant relations to KOTZ 720 am broadcaster, Suzie Sun.
Mrs. Pavel was in the similar shape and sobriety as Randy Kem: drunk as shit, seeing colors and tripping like a motherfucker. She killed the two Sun brothers with her truck, leaving their boots on the road and bouncing Tykee Lloyd Hall across the ice like a fucking hockey puck at light speed. Shannon and Daryl Sours ditched the truck and ran up to her apartment upstairs at the 41 leaving the 2 busted bodies in the roadside to freeze solid and Tykee in a heap against the fence. Fuck them dead niggers, we gotta crack this bottle and drink bitch.
The rest is criminal case history, prosecution and conviction. Shannon Pavel was deep-sixed for quite a stretch for driving while intoxicated, vehicular homicide and I believe Higbitch was the last fuck and suck she got before her jail sentence. I chided Brian that she was also convicted of driving a white dude under the influence of LSD. And breathing Everclear flames, thus explaining Higman's roached pubes, skid marks and fang lesions. You can imagine the details to that action. Two can chew.
A few months later, I got another package of CD's loaded with sheets of LSD, so I popped over to house 711 and paid a visit to Harley. I owed him a pile of money and he preferred dangerous mind altering chemicals over cash. My kind of guy. Me and Harley were doing an interior restoration on Chester and Ida Ballot's house, including a plumbing upgrade. We stuffed insulation in the attic and floors, all the empty walls, textured and painted, then layed out a giant piece of miss-cut carpet from Win at AC Hardware that fit the living area perfectly.
Harley was now the owner of a bunch of acid and asked if he could have a party at our work site inside house 711. I was apprehensive, because he and Dennis Tucker were caught trying to steal stove oil from the courthouse. Harley and Dennis were arrested at gunpoint and almost got killed by our more professional cops at KPD. Shoot first, ditch niggers later. Got dump?
I didn't have any liquor to give him, but with a shit load of LSD on hand I was pretty sure he'd find a way to make mischief. My only advice is next time he's in trouble, I recommended the cops simply dump bullets in both him and that stupid pit bull Dino. Then me and bun will strip him naked and arrange the dead bodies to look as if Harley was having Cecil Hawley anal sex with his own dog. Once frozen solid, I'd load him on a freight sled and erect a statue in front of the courthouse commemorating canine bestiality anal porn so popular amongst Eskimos of the NANA Region. I told him that's where Dolly Hawley came from, and Harley believed me.
Harley Bronson is a disaster and party all in one pile of bad luck. He rallied his dudes and started selling acid to everybody. Francine Harris, May Marlene Thomas, Gloira Ramoth, that weird little puke Lowell Ward, Willie Hailstone, Robert Evak, Shane Keller the nigger that boned Blanchard's wife in dispatch, White Mike Baker and his retarded girlfriend Starbuck, Terry McCall and some darkie ho that preferred tiny cookoos, and bunch of herpie chicks all chewed dangerously strong bitter chemical acid paper and when Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell got off work, they layed out serious dollars also ate a bunch of acid. Acid they all assumed incorrectly, was weak. Now add a pregnant girl. Yup, real dumb. Native babies are such buzz-kills.
Travel back in time and remember the faces of this crew of turd squeezers. Now add way too much LSD and green bud. To complete this episode of mass mental retardation, ya gotta get some liquor. So Chip and Scott thought up a real genius idea: let's run down to Mark Air and steal cases of other people's booze orders.
So that's what they did. Harley kept selling acid on a wholesale level, everybody super high, smoking weed and drinking stolen cases of liquor with a bottle in each hand. The party grew exponentially as Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell flew up and down 3rd avenue between house 711 and the airport with numerous loads of liquor. The bragging rights go to Scott for setting land speed records of over 100mph up and down main drags, side roads and of course, Front street.
Since Jaynor Clark was stuck at home, breast feeding her dog lot and not invited to the party, all the girls took turns riding on the back of the snow machine on each of Scott and Chip's speed runs down to Mark Air for evermore liquor.
Unbeknownst to all these chuckle-head motherfuckers is that when yer screaming high on LSD, liquor has zero effect on you. At least that's the feeling, but yer children will surely display evidence in their DNA damaged, mongoloid crossed-eyes, cleft palate and giant monster skulls. Examine the list of party-goers and then look at their children. The handicapped mutts outlived the cute dead ones.
History will never know how many trips Chip and Scott took down to their workplace to steal booze, but Harley said it was more than 8 cases of hard liquor and dozens of cases of beer. That's 96 bottles of hard liquor, on top of the green bud and acid. Accounting for some liquor barfed in the snow out back, bad shit happens when ye party on the rez. Scared now aren't ye?
On a trip down to the airport, May Marlene Thomas wanted to ride along with Scott to fetch booze. Of course you all know this was their last trip. Scott was WAY fuckered up, yet likely felt in control of his snow machine. On their return trip back up front street, they were flying at warp speed, missed the turn at Lillian Lewis-Coppock's cabin, got crossed up and slammed into Leroy Wilson's front porch.
Scott bailed seconds before impact, but May Marlene was inserted into plywood and lumber as the engine in front her red-lined wide open. While head-rushing on LSD, weed and hard liquor, both her and her baby were disintegrated leaving red bits of litter all over the frozen street. We all know what it feels like to be way up inside a pussy super drunk. Hell, even super high on acid. I wonder what that baby felt like: liquored up and soaked in LSD, tripping balls, stuck way up inside a pussy, then blasted out like an explosive anal Semtex wet fart. Hmmm trippy. We all been there.
Harley told me that after everyone fled, terrified and scary high, he ran away from the scene of the crime and arrived on my front door at house 676 and told me the whole story. I relayed the tale to KPD detailing all the culprits and the mission to kype a fuck-load of booze repeatedly from Mark Air. I also made subtle mention that lots of LSD was consumed but omitted my culpability. Eventually, James Elam fessed up to the massive shortage of booze in the hangar and Bish terminated Chip and Scott on the spot.
Scott did a long stretch in jail for killing May Marlene Thomas and her baby, Chip never worked again in Kotzebue and due to my LSD, eliminated any chance of healthy babies from his stinky deformed seed goop.
Harley can be found frozen naked in front of the courthouse, with his dead pit bull Dino fanged and snarling, yet solid frosty and ass gaped wide open with a skinny kid's icicle erection, balls deep, way up this stupid dog's ass. Ice sculpture, by Hawley of Kivilina.
Since all of my coworkers at the police department are either retired or dead, I think I might move back to Kotzebue again. Maybe renovate some houses, sell needful things, like guns and shit. Maybe import a few thousand hits of LSD too. You know, for personal consumption.
We'll keep this a secret, just between us. Nobody will ever find out.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 10:48 AM
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